The fetor of salt and something extra brought me out of unconsciousness. I gulped down the thick, rotten air as if I had drowned, and had been revived, though by the look of it, I didn't think that I had. Fluorescent lights formed shadows on the bars that caged me. A buzzing being the only sound. My head throbbed from the hit that I vaguely remembered, and the near dead silence. My legs felt numb, refusing to let me lift myself from the gritty floor.

I glanced around the small space. The cell was no bigger than a broom closet, and a bare, metal bed that hung from the wall took up most of the space. A single chair furnished the one corner that seemed to repel light. Dragging myself onto the bed, I could see another few cells lining the opposite wall, with a narrow space between. If I were to reach through the rusted bars of my cell, I could've probably brush the bars of another. However, I had no plans of standing.

Spots blocked most of my vision, and the pulsating blood that rushed to my head only made it more difficult to get a grip. Despite everything my mind screamed for me to do - yell, fight, cry - my body remained still and quiet. I listened for any movement around me, though I seemed to be the only life form in this hellhole.

That is, until what felt like hours passed. Laying still on the bed, I hear the hinges of a large door grating open. I sit up, shifting back into the corner. One set of heavy footsteps resonated within the cell block, sending shivers down my spine with every thump that approached me. A tall, thin man reached my cage, peeking in. His tamed, black hair gelled back into a voluminous coif. Long black joggers hugged his ankles and waist, and a red tee hung loosely from his toned torso. I could see his well built arms reach up to caress the rusted bars of the door. Mr. Cunnings looked different without his usual suit. His dark eyes stared into my soul. They were the kind that couldn't be mistaken, a powerful green, with almost glowing brown streaks.

He whistled to me, snapping and reaching into the cell, as if calling to a pet. "Come on, there is no need to hide." His voice wasn't deep. But it wasn't weak. There was a softness to it, dragging in unsuspecting victims with its faux innocence. The logic in me knew to be afraid, but I was such a huge fan... I wanted to meet him, talk, graze his perfect jaw. Every teenager had a celebrity crush. He was mine.

Egging me on, I revealed myself slowly. Afraid but curious. "There you are," he chuckled. As I cautiously stepped closer, he took the chance to pet my hair, running his fingers through it as if I were his dog. "There, there. No need to fear me."

From his pocket, he pulled a key. I watched the lock on the cell unlock, the door swinging open with a squeak. He stood, revealing his full 6'4" stature. I revelled in his beauty, but fell back when he entered the small space. With breaking a sweat, he picked me up like I was a child, carrying me out of the endless tunnel. I hugged his neck in fear of being dropped, but the slight bounce in his step somehow soothed me.

He showed me around some of the cell blocks of the abandoned prison, a place that he found to be secluded and perfect for the fear factor of killing. It used to be Mirston Town Jail, later changed Mirston Asylum only 3 years before it shut down, due to the lowering populations of townsfolk, thus of prisoners. The asylum was the last building to stand in the ghost town.

Since the visitors were rare, and the asylum was no longer in use, Mr. Cunnings planted his slaughter house there, designating certain areas for different things.

It hadn't been long until he had to set me down, holding my wrist as a leash. "Uhm, Mr. Cunnings, do you, uhm, do you think we-we can see the red room?" I timidly mumbled, avoiding eye contact. He stopped me, taking a moment to think before nodding and guiding me through a series of hallways and down a set of stairs.

Exactly as the videos, but seeing the room in person gave me a new feeling of the room. I finally smelled the dried blood and dirt and rust. I saw more details than in the the small screen, and the wall of weapons was much taller than I had expected. As I examined the many knives and weapons which had been scattered about the back islands, I heard him approach, leaning over me. "Which one is your favorite?" He asked, gesturing to the island.

I pointed bashfully to a scimitar, rusted around the gold hilt, a dragon embedded on the fogged blade. Small chips lined the more or less dull edge, and the hilt seemed somewhat simple. It wasn't beautiful, but the humility and small designs and even the antique feel intrigued me. Mr. Cunnings took it, letting it scrape across the counter, before examining it closely.

"Good choice," he grinned, a faint gleam of eagerness in his eye. The moment lingered, the silence being broken by his host-like voice. I half expected blaring lights and upbeat music to pop up from behind, but all I heard was, "would you like to see what it can do?"